Marlowe
I didn't cry once he was gone, which surprised me more than it probably should have. Ten years of practice had trained that particular reflex nearly out of me — the tears came later, or not at all, but never in the exact moment they might have been useful.
I sat on the edge of his bed for a long time, wrap still loose in one hand, staring at a door that had closed quietly instead of slamming, trying to decide which version would have hurt less.
The secret had been armor for so long I'd forgotten it could be anything else. It had kept me alive, kept me fed, kept a roof over my head that didn't come with Marla's open hand attached to it. Somewhere in the last several weeks, without my quite noticing when, it had stopped feeling like armor and started feeling like a weight I carrie
